Free Azalea by Brenda Hiatt Page B

wearing a charming morning
dress of sky blue. She was accompanied by a smart-looking Junie,
who had bought herself a dress at the market yesterday as well, in
keeping with her new post as a fashionable lady's maid. She had
informed Azalea that young ladies of Quality simply did not go
about in public alone, and stubbornly insisted upon coming with
her.
    Azalea thought it absurd for Junie to waste
a whole morning trailing after her as if she were a child, but
finally agreed to abide by the social customs of the London ton.
Truth be told, she was somewhat nervous about the coming interview
and was just as glad to have Junie's company.
    Leaning back against the velvet squabs in
the elegant carriage, Azalea tried to organize her thoughts for the
ordeal ahead. She had brought along every bit of legal
documentation she possessed and hoped it would be enough to satisfy
Mr. Timmons of the validity of her claims, at least regarding the
Kayce estate.
    The marriage papers resided in her reticule,
separate from the rest. Two days ago she had regarded them as mere
sentimental keepsakes, but she now realized that they might well be
vitally important, in a legal sense, at least.
    The mansions of the elite and fashionable
West End had been left behind and they were now travelling through
a less attractive part of London. Peering out of the carriage
window, Azalea was shocked at the squalor that existed less than
ten minutes from the elegant Mayfair neighbourhood where her
cousins lived. Nowhere in America had she seen such filth and human
degradation.
    Slovenly and obviously inebriated women
lounged in gloomy doorways, many nursing infants. Azalea saw one
woman offer her baby something out of a bottle and she turned to
Junie in dismay.
    "Look at that woman! Surely she is not
giving that poor baby liquor to drink?"
    "Like as not, miss," replied the abigail
after a brief glance. "In these parts, gin is the lifeblood of the
poor folks. No doubt the child would get nearly as drunk on its
mother's milk."
    "But that's terrible! Why doesn't someone do
something?"
    Junie looked at her in amazement. "It's her
babe, to raise or kill as she sees fit."
    Azalea lapsed into silence, feeling
immeasurably depressed by the scene of degrading poverty she had
just witnessed. In America, at least in the part of it she had
known, the poor worked where they could and kept their dignity. If
jobs were not to be had, they moved west, where there was farmland
for the taking.
    A few minutes later her spirits revived
somewhat as the scene changed again to what was obviously a
business district. Well-dressed merchants and gentlemen moved
purposefully along the streets. No women were in evidence. The
carriage came to a stop in front of an imposing red brick edifice
identified by a brass plate that simply read Law Offices.
    Stepping out of the carriage, Azalea told
her maid firmly to remain where she was. Though Junie looked as
though she would have liked to argue, she obeyed.
    Following the directions she had been given,
Azalea proceeded to a suite on the second floor of the Law Offices
with a door plate reading John J. Timmons, Esq., Barr. Opening the
door, she found herself in a plush but rather musty chamber facing
an owlish man of indeterminate age seated at an enormous wooden
desk.
    He looked up from his sheaf of papers with a
frown that gave way to blank astonishment as he beheld a lady in
these sacred male precincts.
    As the man appeared totally bereft of
speech, Azalea opened the conversation herself, speaking quickly
before she could lose her courage.
    "Mr. Timmons? I am Azalea Clayton. I was
referred to you by my grandfather, the Reverend Gregory Simpson. I
believe you handled his business when he was young, as well as that
of his father, Sir Philip Simpson."
    She was running out of opening remarks when
he finally recovered himself enough to speak.
    "Oh, uh... no, ma'am. I mean, I'm not Mr.
Timmons at all. I am Peter Greene, his clerk. I—I'll tell him
you're